


Wear It Like It Doesn't Exist

by Cohens_Girl



Series: There's A Name For It [2]
Category: Corpse Party (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Useless Boys, fluff (of a kind), introspective
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-27
Updated: 2016-11-27
Packaged: 2018-09-02 15:34:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,432
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8672830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cohens_Girl/pseuds/Cohens_Girl
Summary: Yoshiki damn well remembers how it happened.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: Some fairly un-graphic male/male. A fair amount of bad language
> 
> For the sake of continuity with the first chapter, I am actually ignoring Blood Drive, at least for now. It might seem like I have the characters switched here, because people tend to see Yoshiki as completely Tsundere – but that's just his front, I think. I see Yoshiki as a bit defensive, but emotionally intense : he's a bit heavy-handed, but he's completely sincere.
> 
> For The-Royal-Gourd, without whom this probably never would have gotten finished.

  


  


  


  


He dozes, in fits and starts, for perhaps an hour. By the time dawn breaks, rose-gold bleeding over the obsidian sky, Yoshiki is so fucking fed up with trying to sleep that he'd rather gouge his own eyes out than try to close them again.

 

He knows precisely, in clear and vivid detail, what that image might look like. Soup-like flesh and floating membranes, blood weeping black-red over bone-grey cheeks; impotent ligaments and tendons unattached, hanging loosely in empty sockets.

 

Well, _shit._

 

It's too easy to nudge Satoshi's wayward limbs off of his torso – guy sleeps like a rock, somehow, though the concept is alien to Yoshiki these days – too easy to slink over to the window, wallowing in melancholy, and watch as the sun makes it slow ascent.

 

Except that isn't what he does.

 

He leans against the windowsill, letting the first delicate rays settle almost-warm on his skin, and watches Satoshi sleeping. The long black lashes resting on fair cheeks, the tousled mop of hair that is beyond any kind of redemption; lips slightly parted, arm flung haphazardly over his eyes -

 

Ugh, _God_.

 

The other boy's words are rolling around in Yoshiki's head, repeating themselves over and over, reverberating through his brain. _I'm not going anywhere_ , he'd said - and where had that come from, all of a sudden? After all of those times Yoshiki had woken to cold sheets and an empty bed. After all of those aborted glances when Satoshi couldn't quite manage to meet his eyes, like he was too afraid of what he might see there. Just who on earth does Mochida think he is, exactly?

 

He has to _be here_ before he can not _go anywhere_. It's an uncharitable thought that Yoshiki indulges himself in regardless.

 

What's worse, of course, so much worse, is that he can hear himself say _not sure I know what I'm doing any more_ and Jesusfuck - it's mortifying, like he's the lead in some teen drama, begging for validation. The truth always slips out in those quiet moments, when they are pressed up close against one another – nothing between them but skin and he just doesn't _think_ – but it was nothing if not honest. He used to be good at pretending none of this mattered; he used to be convincing. He used to be able to pretend that he was all right, to get up and walk away, the way Satoshi always does - but now...

 

Yoshiki looks away long enough to massage the bridge of his nose but his gaze is soon drawn back, landing on the lean chest that regularly rises and falls.

 

Satoshi Mochida. Who would've guessed?

 

It's so ridiculous, so fucking _tragic_ , that it's almost funny.

 

But not quite.

 

The thing is, Yoshiki knows what Satoshi would say if anyone asked him how or when or why it happened : _I don't know, it just did._ He knows because he's heard Satoshi use those exact words when attempting to explain it to a disinterested Naomi, as though he can rationalise it all into some sort of horrible accident.

 

_I'm awfully sorry Naomi; I really do love you, and I'm sure at one point in time you could have loved me too – and I know that everyone thought we would be so adorable together, it's just that Yoshiki was there and I tripped and fell on his -_

 

It didn't actually go like that, of course, and Yoshiki knows damn well that he's being childish. In reality it was clumsy and awkward, Satoshi stumbling over his words in an effort to convey that they had been beaten and broken and so, so isolated, struggling each and every day to carry on like their whole world wasn't a pile of rubble and dust with Sachiko sat grinning atop it. The final nail in the coffin, the declaration that somehow it had _just happened,_ followed by Naomi's complete silence, just, this crushing _noiselessness_ ; the reality had been so much more ugly.

 

Yoshiki can't begin to imagine why Satoshi even felt the need to tell her, except that perhaps, perhaps he was hoping to elicit some sort of emotional response, trying to call back an echo of what they might have been.

 

He's probably still in love with her, Yoshiki figures. One last ditch attempt to shock her out of apathy.

 

She didn't even blink. She doesn't care about them, about anyone. _Coward._ She's going to spend her whole life staring at the grainy reflection in her bedroom window, gazing into her own bottomless eyes and whispering _Seiko, Seiko, Seiko._

 

God-damn Mochida, stupid, oblivious idiot that he is. As if stuff like that 'just happens'. He'd never even _been_ with anyone like – like _that –_ before Satoshi. As if it would be as easy as simply letting it happen; as if he hadn't spent every waking moment building up to that one instant, putting together enough of the tattered pieces of himself to offer the other boy something whole.

 

 

 

Yoshiki damn well remembers how it happened.

 

 

 

Lightning crackling violet against the black backdrop of night, great drum-rolls of thunder that shook the whole apartment; water had been falling from the sky in sheets when the other boy had shown up at his door, soaked to the bone, staring up at him with those large, dark eyes. He'd been holding a small grey cat in his arms, offering the poor thing up like a sacrifice.

 

“He was meant to live with Sensei.” He'd whispered, sounding so fucking _shattered_ , like every word was being wrenched right out of his chest. The cat, expression doleful and mewling pitifully, had been made up mostly of jutting bones and mange, patches of fur poking up in tufts – they'd made a sorry sight, the pair of them, dwarfed by Yoshiki's doorway and the endless rain.

 

He had shooed them in, found a box and some old newspaper for the cat – _Monet,_ Satoshi had told him mournfully, she called him _Monet –_ even scrounged together some leftover chicken and rice to feed the thing, accepting without question that it meant no dinner for him. Again.

 

He'd had no money for vet bills but it wasn't like he was going to tell Satoshi that; not with the wretched expression he'd been sporting. Besides, what else was he going to do? Throw Ms.Yui's cat to the wolves?

 

Fuck that.

 

“It isn't fair.” Satoshi had said, fists clenched a vibrant white and throat bobbing, voice scraped raw. “It just – it isn't -” Yoshiki hadn't had an answer for him, then; probably has even less of one, now, now that distance has taught him that these things don't heal with time.

 

Instinct had taken over. He'd nudged the other boy into the bathroom and helped him out of his wet clothes – so chaste, so innocent, he hadn't thought twice about it – given him a spare t-shirt that was too large, dried his hair with another.

 

They'd talked that night, a little. Satoshi had asked _what did we do to deserve this_ and Yoshiki had wanted to say _you didn't do anything to deserve this; you tried to stop us, you knew and you chose to come with us rather than let us go through that Hell alone -_

 

 _Christ_ , Satoshi – he's the bravest person that Yoshiki has ever known.

 

But what he'd said is _we got involved in Ayumi's stupid shit_ because the sting of rejection had still been fresh, back then; he'd been so bitter at her, so hurt that she'd turned her back on all of them and hidden herself away.

 

Strangely, the silence had been calm; they'd reached a level of understanding that couldn't have existed before Sachiko. The soft hiss of the rain and Monet's low purring filled the empty spaces between them, and they had told each other how lost, how frightened they were, if not in as many words; Satoshi had come to him and Yoshiki had let him in and there was a simple, unspoken honesty in that. Eventually Satoshi had fallen asleep where he was sat in the armchair, head dropped onto his shoulder, easy as you like.

 

And Yoshiki had just watched him breathe, confused, helpless to his own sudden, inexplicable feelings of tenderness; defenceless against the fondness that had crept up his throat and suffocated every other thought from his mind.

 

_Satoshi._

 

 

 

 

That had been the start of it. He'd know then, known that something was different, but he hadn't been able to put his finger on it; he had simply started hanging around the other boy more often. Waiting for him after class, for example, and dragging him up to the roof so that they could eat their lunches together in relative privacy. He'd taken to texting Satoshi random questions on any given evening – _Monet brought me a dead bird, am I proud or pissed? - Which one is Pythagoras again?_ \- even when he damn well knew the answers to both of those fucking questions. He'd just wanted to remind Satoshi that, even if he wasn't Naomi, he still existed; he'd wanted to let the other boy know that he was...thinking of him.

 

Satoshi never said anything. He never spurned the new and somewhat intense attention, never objected to being hand-fed Yoshiki's lunch when he'd forgotten his own, never shook off the cautious fingertips that would occasionally find their way to his shoulder, apropos of nothing. He didn't question Yoshiki's sudden propensity towards showing up unannounced on his front drive of a weekend. He simply seemed to quietly acclimate, allowing Yoshiki into parts of his life that Yoshiki had never been particularly interested in, before.

 

They didn't _talk_ about it because talking would mean explaining and Yoshiki wasn't sure that he could explain.

 

One afternoon, weeks later, he'd uttered the fateful words,

 

“Wanna come to mine and see Monet?” and Satoshi's face had lit up brighter than a sky full of stars, large eyes gleaming with some emotion that Yoshiki had never seen before.

 

“Yeah.” He'd said, smiling shyly, a pink tint spreading high on his cheeks. “I'd like that.”

 

They'd been so close as they had walked back that day, close enough to bump shoulders, close enough for Yoshiki to hear the other boy's quiet, contended hum as he turned his face up into the autumn sun.

 

It was...perfect.

 

Monet greeted him like an old friend, as had become the norm; the lost fur hadn't grown back, but what remained was a sleek, shining silver, more meat packed onto his skeletal frame.

 

“Wow,” Satoshi had whispered, gingerly making himself at home amongst the empty take-out boxes and scattered school-notes, “You've taken really good care of him.” Yoshiki hadn't known what to say to that. His reflex reaction was defensiveness - of course I have, why wouldn't I? - but the words had sat heavy in his throat, choking him into silence. He hadn't wanted to start an argument. The realisation that he wanted Satoshi to think well of him wasn't new, exactly, but still terrifying; the notion of what he was beginning to want from the other boy made every interaction between them feel tense, a minefield of potential pit-falls. It didn't matter in the end - he must have looked as wounded as he felt, because Satoshi had baulked almost immediately, flustered, stuttering, “Oh, I didn't mean – I just meant that – he, he looks like a whole new cat. Don't you, Monet?”

 

The cat, a treacherous little bastard, had rubbed all around Satoshi's legs, purring loudly, making the other boy grin.

 

“See? He agrees.”

 

Yoshiki had grunted at that, dropping his bag at the door and throwing himself haphazardly on the bed, feeling tactless and inept and pathetically shy. He didn't know what he was supposed to be doing - all he'd really known was that he wanted Satoshi there. That he liked to have the other boy near, as often as possible.

 

After a few seconds of awkward silence, Satoshi had found the confidence he'd lacked. He'd casually edged over to the bed, perching so lightly next to Yoshiki that he barely dented the sheets – then, with an abysmally shaky pretence of nonchalance, he'd poked Yoshiki in the stomach, murmuring awkwardly,

 

“Been taking good care of yourself, too.” Yoshiki's muscles had flexed at the impact involuntarily, unprepared for the assault, and the sudden breath Satoshi had sucked in – _God_ –

 

That one touch was all it took.

 

Yoshiki knows damn well what he did next; there was no _letting it happen_ , there was no _accident._ Satoshi's palm had been flat against his chest, and he'd caught the other boy's elbow : one swift tug and their lips had met like he'd planned it all along.

 

The kiss had been gentle, warm and tentative with inexperience; Satoshi tasted like pork cutlet and rice and his general scent – clean laundry and deodorant – so normal, so beautifully fucking _ordinary_. It only took a little coaxing before the palms planted on either side of his body had given way, arms and thighs tucked around each other, hips aligned; the pads of Satoshi's fingers had been so, so soft as they trailed up his shoulders, up his neck, into his hair.

 

He'd been nervous, at first, so desperate to _not be bad_ \- chest pumped full of adrenaline, hands unable to settle, he'd licked into Satoshi's mouth with careful concentration. Then Mochida had made some noise in the back of his throat, pleasure and frustration entwined; this incredible, this, this wonderful noise that somehow _Yoshiki_ had been the author of, vibrating through his flesh. He'd bucked his hips on instinct – just wanting to be closer, impossibly closer – and _shit_ , that _feeling_ : sudden and ardent and breathless. It was all so new and unexpected; white-hot and molten in his belly, body arching reflexively as all the blood in his body seemed to flood to his groin. They'd gasped into each other's mouths, mutually shocked by the jolt of electricity, that perfect friction, hard and hot and intimate.

 

The rest is something of a blur. Satoshi's fingers fumbling with his shirt buttons, clothes discarded every which way; Yoshiki running his hands over every inch of skin he could reach, claiming the flesh of Satoshi's throat with his teeth. It had turned into a frenzy - an urgent, needy mess of naked limbs and swollen lips.

 

He'd expected to feel somewhat timid, being naked in front of someone else for the first time; had always been gripped by some horrible fear that there would be some inherently repellent about his body. He'd imagined the lights would be off and he'd be under the duvet and it would all be sort of – clumsy and graceless and that he'd have to go through that _one shit time_ to get to the good stuff. That's what everyone says, isn't it?

 

He certainly never could have predicted that he would be writhing around on top of his duvet with the early-evening sun streaming in, Satoshi Mochida propped up on his elbows above him; never could have pictured the two of them clinging to each other, skin damp and shining, their underwear around their ankles, rubbing against each other like it was the only thing in the world that mattered.

 

It was more than he could ever have imagined – so, so much more, and in the warm, ethereal glow that followed, lying spent on top of the covers with feelings of tenderness singing in bloodstream, he could not have said where he ended and Satoshi began. Not for all the world.

 

It couldn't last, of course. Not ten minutes later, Satoshi was pulling on his clothes, face a mixture of pleasure and pain and what looked to Yoshiki like self-reproach.

 

Satoshi had kissed him once, softly on the cheek, and fled.

 

At the time – and the time after – and the time after that - he'd told himself that it didn't matter, that he wasn't being _weak,_ even though a single touch would have him all but dragging the other boy back home with him. That, just because a single glance from Satoshi could reduce his brain to a fizz of white-noise, it didn't have to _mean anything._ He'd convinced himself that it was all to get back at the girl who'd spurned him. So that one day he could look Ayumi in the eye and say : _You want him? Well I can_ have _him._ Deep down, he knows that it was never about that. Even though it was good - _is_ good – Hell, it's fucking _dumbfounding,_ it was never about sex for Yoshiki. He doesn't crave it the same way that he knows Satoshi does. He's come to learn that Satoshi uses it as a way to drown out everything else; he has this weird fucking ability to _disconnect_ that Yoshiki can't fathom.

 

After all, he kept Monet, starved himself for weeks to pay for the medication for some alley cat that may or may not have been Ms.Yui's in another life-time because he'd do anything for Satoshi. Somehow, the other boy had gotten irrevocably under his skin, like a splinter, a thorn, secretly working its way so deep into his flesh that he'd never be able to get it out – Yoshiki couldn't _disconnect_ even if he wanted to. He's invested past any point of return and yet, even now, Satoshi will sometimes slip out of bed in the middle of night and creep home like what they are doing is so _dirty_ , so _sordid._

 

It - hurts. Cuts him in ways that Yoshiki couldn't hope to articulate.

 

And – ugh, God. Here he is, the same stupid idiot that fell for Ayumi, just...watching Satoshi sleep. Just so fucking happy that he's stayed the night, that he's still tucked between Yoshiki's covers, that he hasn't _run_ yet - damn it all to Hell _._

 

 

 

Satoshi, blissfully ignorant, snuffles in his sleep, nuzzling into the pillow.

 

 

 

Yoshiki takes a shower. A very long, very hot shower in which he does his best to scrub the smell, the _feel_ of Satoshi from every inch of his skin.

 

He just needs to wake up, that's all. He'll wake up soon and, and everything will make sense again. Besides, Monet needs to be fed and that isn't going to happen if he's standing around moping over Satoshi bloody Mochida.

 

Nothing in his life has ever been easy; he's stronger, he's better than this. He just needs to stop inviting Satoshi back with him, stop repeating the same mistake over and over again and expecting different results.

 

He's almost in a stable frame of mind when he finally steps out of the shower, except that then he steps into the living room and what he sees blindsides him.

 

Satoshi, mostly-dressed and sat calmly at his little two-seater table, two bowls of rice steaming happily in front of him.

 

“Oh!” The other boy chirps, grinning nervously and wringing his hands. “Just in time. It's still hot.”

 

Yoshiki flounders, tries to find the words to say, but - there's nothing. He wants more than anything to sit at this table and pretend, for a moment, that they have survived. He wants to pretend that he and Satoshi are whole and together and more or less in tact, because maybe that means that one day they _can_ be. It's just that his stomach twists at the thought of it, tying itself into knots.

 

This doesn't feel right. He knows Satoshi; he knows what the other boy is willing to offer and what he isn't and this is – unsettling.

 

Yoshiki stares blankly at the rice until Satoshi clears his throat uneasily and shuffles in his chair.

 

“I don't understand.” He manages, quietly, hoping to God that Satoshi doesn't ask him to explain because Hell if he knows what any of this means. Satoshi simply shrugs and avoids his eyes, shrinking into himself a little. Yoshiki clucks his tongue and pulls anxiously at his t-shirt, trying to line everything up in his head.

 

He thinks of Satoshi's chest tight against his back, carefully covering every knob in his spine; thinks of Satoshi's _hush-hush_ noises in the dark. It's too much to hope for, but...But...

 

He's got to believe there's something here between them. He's got to.

 

There is nothing else.

 

He still doesn't know what he's doing; probably never will, since Sachiko took the entire framework of time and space and gleefully tore it into shreds. He sits down at the table opposite Satoshi and picks up a pair of chopsticks, anyway.

 

He doesn't know if Satoshi's answering smile is real or not – but maybe that doesn't matter.

 

Even if it isn't, maybe one day it can be.

 


End file.
